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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29254581">Three Rings, Three Chairs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt'>Monsterunderkilt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Manse [49]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Actor RPF, Celebrities - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fanfic - Fandom, Real Person Fiction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:07:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,644</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29254581</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In a special three-part series, the Manse husbands each take turns treating me to Valentine dates. Shmaltz is the rule, because if there’s any excuse for too much romance, this is it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Manse [49]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1209447</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Stephen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Stephen cooks me seafood and I provide some furniture.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Jon and Stephen are conspiring on your Valentine’s gifts, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>I turn to Ken, idly twirling one of the curls behind my ear. “They’re my husbands. I don’t know that one would describe buying their wife a Valentine’s gift a conspiracy.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs and starts playing with another curl behind my opposite ear as he stares into my eyes all romantic-like. “They just seem very excited by their plan. They’re awfully clever and loyal.”</p><p> </p><p>I blink slowly. “Are you conspiring as well by any chance?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods with a soft smile, leaning closer, voice lower. “A conspiracy of note, indeed.”</p><p> </p><p>My eyes widen as I’m drawn in by his gravity. “Oh a state secret, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Peradventure, darling,” he says, closing his eyes just before our lips meet.</p><p> </p><p>“Hmmmmm,” I hum as we rub noses and smile. “You rabid old romantic.”</p><p> </p><p>Ken holds up his hands, as if under arrest. “Guilty as charged.”</p><p> </p><p>***********</p><p> </p><p>Valentine’s weekend begins and by mid afternoon Friday I have some clue as to what my men have in store for me. Stephen takes over the kitchen entirely, clearly preparing some lavish dining experience. Jon, meanwhile, comes back from some unknown location with a large pink box that he hides in the extra fridge we have in the larder. But Sir Ken is nowhere to be found. I assume they have split the festivities into three evenings, like a Jewish holiday.</p><p> </p><p>I stay in my office, blogging away about Greek mythology in <em>Troilus and Cressida</em> until Stephen knocks on the door.</p><p> </p><p>“Madam muffin,” he says in a sing-song voice through the wood, “Better get ready for your first date!”</p><p> </p><p>I get up and unlock the door for him. “What’s the dress code?” I ask as I return to the desk.</p><p> </p><p>His grin precedes him as he enters. “Something backless?”</p><p> </p><p>I scratch my head. “You know I don’t own such a thing.”</p><p> </p><p>He walks over, still wrapped in a stained apron from his project downstairs, and takes my hands in his. “Just messin’ with you. I did turn up the heat a little more though, so you don’t have to be swaddled up—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll wear something sexy if you do.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a deal.”</p><p> </p><p>************</p><p> </p><p>We’re both as good as our word. As I come downstairs to the dining room, dressed in a low-backed LBD with Art Deco-inspired bedazzlements all over it, I see the chef himself has changed into a suit that he must’ve stolen from Daniel Craig.</p><p> </p><p>I blush at the enormous smile lighting up his face. “Madam, you are resplendent,” he says as he takes my hand and kisses it, then leads me over to my chair at the end of the dining table and assists me as I take a seat. “I know you like Florida lobster.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh I certainly do,” I say, winking over the table at him as Jon sidles up, wearing what appears to be his best gray t-shirt with a clip-on black bow tie. He carries a silver ice bucket stand with a champagne bottle buried in it and places it beside the table between our chairs. He silently and stoically lifts the familiar orange-labeled bottle out of the bucket and proceeds to uncork it and pour it for us.</p><p> </p><p>“Veuve Clicquot for the Madam and the Master,” Jon says in a deep voice, then bows. “Your meals will arrive shortly.”</p><p> </p><p>Stephen makes a show of pressing a $50 bill into Jon’s palm and whispering “Keep the bubbly coming, my friend.”</p><p> </p><p>I give Jon a questioning look as he nods to Stephen, then he shrugs and heads off the to the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>“Stephen, sweetheart,” I say as he reaches over the table and takes my hand again. “Did you have to pressgang Jon into this?”</p><p> </p><p>“We have a deal, don’t worry about it, mambakins. Just... let me work my magic.”</p><p> </p><p>I pick up my very full champagne glass and he follows suit. “To us.”</p><p> </p><p>“To us.”</p><p> </p><p>After we toast and take our first bitter bubbly sip, I lean over and grab a decent kiss. “The magic is already working.”</p><p> </p><p>*************</p><p> </p><p>After dinner and dessert and a little dance in the living room to the Obama’s inaugural night love song (because why not?), we adjourn to Stephen’s apartment for cocktails. But when we step out onto his back balcony, there’s something new there, draped in a white sheet, with a big red bow on top of it.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh will you look at that?” I say, leading Stephen over to the strange present. I take his Negroni and watch his eyes widen with total surprise.</p><p> </p><p>“Madam, I don’t believe it’s Lexus season any longer. And this is far too small anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>“Go ahead and unveil it already,” I say, sipping from both of our glasses.</p><p> </p><p>With an almost practiced flourish, Stephen whips the sheet off and away, revealing a shiny new bentwood Gebruder Thonet adjustable rocking chaise longue with cane seat and back. Perfect for his lounging in the sun and reading books every afternoon.</p><p> </p><p>Stephen runs his hands over the smooth beechwood curves and swirls, jaw dropped. “This is truly a thing of beauty. It’s so light and delicate I almost don’t feel I can sit on it.”</p><p> </p><p>“You better sit on it. And lie down on it. And rock in it. It’s built for all the relaxation.”</p><p> </p><p>He awkwardly settles down between the small armrests and lies back, his legs swept up by the foot of the chair, then settles into a gentle rocking motion. He clasps his hands behind his head and grins up at the sky. “Oh wow... have you given this a test drive already?”</p><p> </p><p>“You bet I did,” I say with a smile. “You approve?”</p><p> </p><p>“Madam, I’ve never been more happy that you’ve spent all your free time this month diligently studying chairs.” Stephen gets back up and fishes a box out of his jacket pocket. “Now your turn.”</p><p> </p><p>I put the drinks down and kiss him, taking the tiny black box and lifting the top. Inside is a sweet little stacking ring made of a tiny twisted gold chain. I wink up at him. “Did Sir clue you into my obsession with these things?”</p><p> </p><p>“I saw he got you two already, so I need to catch up.”</p><p> </p><p>I let Stephen gently slip it onto my right pointer finger and watch it sparkle subtly next to the other one already there. It’s exactly what I wanted.</p><p> </p><p>“Happy Valentine’s number one,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>I reach up and wrap my hands behind his neck, his arms enfolding me against him. I watch his giant smile lend a twinkle to his eye and return it full force. “You’re one of the best husbands.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re my favorite Madam.”</p><p> </p><p>Thusly, night one is sealed with a kiss.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Jon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon sets up a sunset picnic while I gift him a relaxation device.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon leads me by the hand through the dense jungle path, the light breeze sweeping over the ferns and elephant leaves kept warm by sheer willpower against the outside world of winter. He carries a wicker picnic basket almost the size of himself and insists on no assistance. When we reach the clearing, where my yoga nidra platform resides, I see that he already has a blanket and some cushions set up there, with a small cooler nearby. The sun is still a few hours from setting, and favors us with its life-giving heat.</p><p> </p><p>“Have a seat, Madam,” Jon says, putting down the basket and rubbing his hands together with anticipation.</p><p> </p><p>I squat down and smile as he opens the basket and starts digging out plates and cups and napkins. Then he sets out a box of assorted sushi rolls, some cracked pepper Triscuits, a can of mixed nuts, grapes, chèvre, and sliced havarti. I’m grinning ear-to-ear by the time he hands me some chopsticks.</p><p> </p><p>Jon winks before he lifts open the cooler and takes out a bottle of Sauvignon blanc. “Just getting started.”</p><p> </p><p>“I half expected there to be merely two giant meatball subs in there.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon holds up a finger. “To be fair, that was my first plan, but I figured you’d like the old ‘international lunch’ thing better. Plus, it’s a little more romantic.”</p><p> </p><p>“And less messy.”</p><p> </p><p>He bows his head slightly. “Exactly.”</p><p> </p><p>I scoot closer to him and lean over to kiss his cheek. “This is perfect, Jon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hand me that glass there, dear.”</p><p> </p><p>I grab the stainless stemless wine tumbler he set out and hold it up for him as he pours it nearly full. I give him the eye. “You know you don’t have to get me snockered for me to sleep with you, you know?”</p><p> </p><p>“Pfft, this is for me. I’m the one who needs to get blitzed if I’m going to attempt seducing you.”</p><p> </p><p>I giggle and grab the other tumbler for him to fill. I sneak even closer beside him and whisper in his ear, “I’ll seduce you instead.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon laughs as he finishes pouring. “I don’t pretend to understand why I happen to blow your skirt up, but I welcome it.”</p><p> </p><p>The breeze dies down for a moment, sucking away all the air, leaving nothing but tension between us. I lay my palm on Jon’s gray t-shirt-covered chest and our eyes meet. No pretense remains, no silliness. Only a sense of a profound flow after a lengthy ebb; a quickening as the frigid season begins to turn.</p><p> </p><p>“Come back to me, Jon,” I say. “Sooner rather than later?”</p><p> </p><p>“Does Twitter count?”</p><p> </p><p>I roll my eyes. “It’s a start.”</p><p> </p><p>He places his hand over mine and squeezes it. “Are you sure you want old me back now that you have young Joliver now? I hear he’s quite good. He’s the upgraded version.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Jon,” I say, pulling him against me, squishing my face against his. I kiss him thrice. “Jon, Jon, Jon, my favorite Jon...”</p><p> </p><p>***********</p><p> </p><p>“Are they shut tight?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Madam.”</p><p> </p><p>“Keep them closed.”</p><p> </p><p>“I better be able to open them soon or I might be led to believe you’re leading me off a cliff.”</p><p> </p><p>“Poor blind Gloucester you are not, and I am no Edgar.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Never mind. Ok... look!”</p><p> </p><p>Jon opens his eyes and I yank the white sheet off his present, tossing it onto the nearby living room sofa. Like Vanna White, I spread my arms and present a mission-style mahogany BarcaLounger with oxblood leather that was literally the least hideous La-Z-Boy-like thing I could find.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a recliner!” Jon says, grinning with pleasant bafflement. “You broke down and got me one?”</p><p> </p><p>I put my hands on my hips. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find one with a toilet built in so you’d never have to leave the room during a live sporting event but perhaps your boyfriend Denis might get you one for Hanukkah one day.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon almost ignores the rather handsome chair and pulls me into a bear hug. “Oh, bubbe, I can just imagine the kind of aesthetic soul searching you had to do to solve this for me. Thank you ever so much.”</p><p> </p><p>Returning the hug with a kiss square on his lips, I smile and gently shove him down to finally sit in the darn thing and put his feet up. His eyes roll back into their sockets and he moans contentedly.</p><p> </p><p>“This is a thing of beauty.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good. I’m two for two then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did Stephen get one as well?”</p><p> </p><p>“He got a very different lounging device.”</p><p> </p><p>Just then, Stephen enters, dressed like a waiter, with all the exaggerated demeanor of one. He bows. “Mr. and Mrs. Stewbeef,” he says in a voice an octave lower than usual, “Your reservation awaits.” He holds a hand toward the dining room table where several tea lights have been set up in a row, along with what appears to be a number of plated dishes.</p><p> </p><p>Jon jumps up and hooks my arm in his, leading me over to to the table. Indeed, there are half a dozen different mini desserts of various luscious colors and shapes and sizes. Tarts, cakes, and mousses with berries and chocolate shavings and creams on top—each competing to be more sumptuous than the last.</p><p> </p><p>“Will Madam prefer an Armagnac or a sherry with her dessert?” Stephen asks. “Perhaps a ruby port or an icewine?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh Armagnac please, thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jon?”</p><p> </p><p>“Same, please.”</p><p> </p><p>Stephen bows and steps away to fetch the drinks.</p><p> </p><p>I turn to Jon and reach over the tablecloth to squeeze his hand. “Are these from where I think they’re from?”</p><p> </p><p>“Only if you think they’re from Fabiane’s.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Jon, my perfect pupik,” I whisper lovingly as I lean over and kiss him sweetly. “You’re a star.”</p><p> </p><p>“Now be careful... there might be something inedible on one of them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon reaches out and slides one of the small plates toward me... the one that appears to host a conical tiramisu with a tall shard of chocolate sticking out of the top. The shard has a sparkly thing draped on its tip. “Yes, that’s definitely yours.”</p><p> </p><p>I daintily pluck a circlet of minuscule golden ball chain from the dessert and nearly drop it on the plate. Jon takes it and slips it around my left pointer finger, then kisses the back of my hand. He winks. “It suits you.”</p><p> </p><p>My heart melts. “You suit me, Jon. Forever and always.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Ken</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The resident director stages some surprises and I unveil the final furnishing of the week</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Standing alone at the foot of my bed, I stare down at the open garment box before me. Inside, under the tissue paper, is a raw silk fold of fabric the color of Persian limes. As I lift it out and unfold it, I realize it’s a deceptively simple, elegant strapless jumpsuit with flared legs that makes it appear to be an evening gown. The sweetheart bodice has some boning inside, and appears to have been magically tailored just for me. The fine fabric has a touch of sheen, almost two-toned like a beetle wing. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and smile. There’s a sudden hot flutter of anticipation in my chest.</p><p> </p><p>A little while later, after I’ve dressed and managed to strap on some heels that will keep the hem of the pant legs from touching the floor, I hear a knocking. I open the door and see Ben standing in the hallway, dressed in tie and tails. His hair is as thick and lush as ever, piled high in a luxurious pompadour that shines like onyx. He smiles and bows his head slightly.</p><p> </p><p>“Madam, I’ve been sent as your escort.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh my. I wasn’t expecting this.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben laughs. “No, mum, I am to lead you to the meeting place.”</p><p> </p><p>I laugh as well, touching my ears to make sure my gold clavicle-brushing earrings are secure. “Perfect timing, then,” I say, holding out my hand. Ben takes it and hooks his arm in mine as we head downstairs.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a vision tonight, I must say,” he comments as we make our way through the kitchen toward the glass doors. “Sir really knows how to pick out an outfit.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m pretty sure he had an Oscar-winning costume designer knock this one up for him,” I say, only half joking.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I think you’ll find he had the same done for him.”</p><p> </p><p>As we make our way outside toward the garden, I see that a large white outdoor movie screen has been erected on one edge of the grass. Ben leads me around it, revealing the single Thonet bistro table and chairs set up near the other end of the lawn. One of the chairs hosts my final Valentine. He’s been scarce, doing whatever it is he does as President of RADA, and this is the first time I’ve even seen him all week.</p><p> </p><p>When Sir sees us, he snaps his fingers in the air and soft bossa nova instrumentals start playing on the faux stone garden speakers surrounding us. He stands proudly, cutting a fine figure in a shiny raw silk three-piece suit the shade of cloudy sapphires, paired with a crisp white shirt and a black bow tie. He smiles a mile wide, eyes even more so.</p><p> </p><p>“Missus,” Ken says almost breathlessly as Ben hands me off. He reaches out and takes both my hands. “You’re simply stunning.”</p><p> </p><p>“As are you, Kenneth,” I say coquettishly. “Your sartorial instinct is as sharp as ever. You know I adore a waistcoat.” I step closer, feeling unnaturally tall enough to kiss him without too much bending down on his part. He smells of sweet, earthy vetiver and a hint of lavender hand soap. He’s a fucking uncut English lawn on a summer day. Delightful.</p><p> </p><p>Ken adds an extra kiss to my cheek, but lingers close. “I missed you,” he whispers, knowing very well the way he says that always sends goosebumps down my side.</p><p> </p><p>“Mmmmm, absence makes the lap grow warmer,” I say, our lusty eyes meeting for a sharp, blazing moment before we realize we have dinner and apparently a movie as the evening’s first act.</p><p> </p><p>“Please join me,” Ken says, pulling my chair out for me and pushing it in as I sit. He steps around the table to his seat and nods to Ben. “The starter, please. And the drinks.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben leaves us to scurry into the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. I wink at my husband and flick my eyes in the direction of the big screen. “So what’s that about?”</p><p> </p><p>Ken winks back and reaches to squeeze my hand. “All in good time, darling.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you have an Ingmar Bergman marathon for me?” I ask giddily.</p><p> </p><p>He grimaces slightly.“We haven’t seen each other for days on end and you think I’m about to remind you of your Max von Sydow infatuation <em>now</em>? Pish posh, Madam, <em>I’m</em> the one seducing you tonight, not him.”</p><p> </p><p>I blush at his mostly feigned jealousy, which just serves to make me more hot.</p><p> </p><p>We continue on to chat about the Bergman films we’ve watched together recently—when was Elliot Gould ever considered seductive?—and Ben comes back with a bowl and an ice bucket. He places the bowl on the table. It’s filled with freshly fried steak-cut chips and a little cup of HP sauce for dipping. I watch, astonished, as our server also takes out two bottles of Fuller’s London Pride from the bucket, uncaps them, places them in front of us, then walks off again.</p><p> </p><p>I watch as Ken picks up his cloth napkin, unfolds it with a flick of his wrist and lays it over his lap.</p><p> </p><p>“Ken... are we indulging in... pub grub?”</p><p> </p><p>He picks up his ale. “Neither of us has been to one in quite a long while, so I thought... why not?” He says, then raises the bottle toward me. “A toast to Valentine’s Day, Madam. And many more.”</p><p> </p><p>I shake my head and laugh, grab my bottle and clink it against his. “To Valentine’s.”</p><p> </p><p>Dinner turns out to be a rather heavenly steak and ale pie—clearly made with a hearty stout that makes the gravy deliciously black—with steamed carrots and turnips and mushy peas. It’s a triumph of English cuisine indeed, and reminds me of a lunch I had in an inn on the shore of Loch Ness once.</p><p> </p><p>When we’re done, Sir whistles sharply, and suddenly Thomas and Chris appear, an image of Norse gods hefting lawn furniture. In front of the big screen, they set up two chaises longues beside each other and add full-length cushions, then place a small side table between them. They bow and disappear back into the house.</p><p> </p><p>Ken gets up and offers his hand. “Care for some evening entertainment?”</p><p> </p><p>I stand and grab his hand, using him to stabilize my short walk across the uneven grass in my heels. We settle in and recline comfortably as Ben brings us some giant Jaffa cakes like they used to sell at Costa, a bottle of ruby port, and two small glasses, which he promptly fills for us before also sneaking back off to the house.</p><p> </p><p>Ken lifts his glass and smiles in a clever, expectant way that makes me a little nervous. “<em>Listo</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>I blink and toast. “Si, si, salud,” I say, following his linguistic lead.</p><p> </p><p>Just then, Tilda emerges from behind the screen. She stalks out like some wading water bird, effortlessly beautiful in her long white slacks and cream-colored angora sweater. She smiles as she holds a microphone in both hands and gives us a little bow of her head.</p><p> </p><p>“Good evening, Madam and Sir,” she says warmly. “It gives me great pleasure to introduce tonight’s feature, which was directed by a new friend of mine, one whom we all appreciate thanks to Madam’s perennial obsession with him.”</p><p> </p><p>I hold my breath, glancing at Ken. He is stone-faced all of a sudden, but then his eyebrow raises slightly. I stare at Tilda, who winks at Ken. My heart stops.</p><p> </p><p>“So before we commence, I am honored to introduce the man himself—”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Ay Dios mio!</em>” I say under my breath.</p><p> </p><p>Tilda holds out one hand and from the opposite side of the screen, none other than my hero appears, all smiles and tall white hair. “Welcome to the Manse, Señor Almodóvar!”</p><p> </p><p>“Pedro!” I gasp. “Holy shit, <em>Pedro</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>The legend himself steps over to take Tilda’s hand and kisses both her cheeks before bowing to his mini audience. Wearing a bright yellow jacket and bubblegum pink scarf to go with his black slacks, he’s giddy and energetic and every bit as zesty as I expected. “Bueno, bueno, Señora Tilly. Buenas noches mis amigos!”</p><p> </p><p>I cannot speak. My jaw is on the floor and my eyes full of tears.</p><p> </p><p>Ken leans over and shakes my shoulder. “Missus, go, meet him, please, I’ll take a photo.”</p><p> </p><p>I manage a high pitched squee and have the presence of mind to take off my heels before I dash toward Tilda and Pedro. I blush furiously as he eagerly takes my hands in his and greets me with two kisses.</p><p> </p><p>“Madam... apprecias mis peliculas?” he asks. “You are.. a big fan, no?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh... si, si, Señor Almodóvar. Mucho.” I am crying. “Thank you so much... you are... eres mi director favorito! En todo el mundo!”</p><p> </p><p>“Just a bloody second now,” Ken says as he walks over, cell phone at the ready. “What’s that about your favorite director? I thought <em>I</em> was your favorite—”</p><p> </p><p>“Silencio, Kenneth,” Tilda hisses. “Just... please do take the picture.”</p><p> </p><p>I position myself between Pedro and Tilda and receive a double hug from my dreams. Ken snaps a few photos and I am physically unable to stop grinning. I turn to Pedro and hold his hands. “Señor, muchas gracias... para.. todo! Te amo!”</p><p> </p><p>Pedro laughs and kisses my knuckles. “Madam, thank you. Espero no haber... I did make tu esposo... jealous.”</p><p> </p><p>I giggle and grin at Sir, who has his hands on his hips, staring at me with a touch of a wary eye. “Oh, don’t worry about Kenny,” I say to Pedro. “Lo amo mucho. He knows I adore him. Esta bien.”</p><p> </p><p>Soon the special screening proceeds, and I finally get to see one of Pedro’s newer films, <em>Dolor y Gloria</em>, which of course stars one of Pedro’s regulars, Antonio Banderas, whose character is basically Pedro. And for this, he won the award for best actor at Cannes. It is glorious.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*********</p><p> </p><p>As the evening comes to a close, I blindfold Ken and lead him through the house to the front parlour. I realize too late that this is reminiscent of many scenes from Pedro’s films, although it will most definitely lead to a more savory ending.</p><p> </p><p>“Will you just trust me and walk a little faster?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I am an old man, and increasingly cautious about falling with every passing day.”</p><p> </p><p>I finally bring Ken to the right spot and turn him around. “Ok, now sit down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you actually have some <em>King Lear</em> fetish like Jon says?”</p><p> </p><p>“What? No. Jesus, just sit down.”</p><p> </p><p>Ken grasps both my hands tightly as he does what he’s told, and just as intended, a very special chair catches him. There’s a gentle puff of air as the cushy green leather seat sinks with his weight, and the unique squeak of animal hide as he adjusts and settles into it. His hands reach over the edge of the armrests and he fingers the carvings there. “This was not part of your collection before,” he says, further exploring the chair with his touch. “May I have a look at it?”</p><p> </p><p>I smile and climb into his lap, then tenderly untie the blindfold from his head. I kiss him before he even has a chance to open his eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sir Ken.”</p><p> </p><p>He grins and swivels his head around, taking in what details he can from his new gift. His face lights up almost instantly and his mouth takes on the shape of a giant “O.”</p><p> </p><p>“I heard of your little weakness for Art &amp; Crafts.”</p><p> </p><p>Ken shakes his head at me, smiling. “This is some kind of... Morris chair.”</p><p> </p><p>It is, in fact, an adjustable Morris chair in dark-stained quartersawn oak with lion heads carved into the armrests. It’s of an earlier design, a bit closer to Victorian than turn-on-the-century, with casters on its feet and everything. It’s known as one of the first recliners ever devised.</p><p> </p><p>“It reminded me of you,” I say, holding his cheek in my palm. “A bit old fashioned, but also a bit camp. Pragmatic but playful, surprisingly unpretentious, but still elegant and useful.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad I’m still useful,” Ken says with a chuckle. He rubs his hands over the fine leather arm cushions a moment longer, then hugs me against him. “This is a fine, fine gift, Missus. And it’s set up opposite your favorite Eames I see. So we can stare each other down in comfort as we read and debate whatever it is we dig up in that Asimov book you found.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right, exactly what I was thinking,” I say, rolling my eyes a little. I point to his feet. “You’ll also see that this one has a little pull-out footrest thing there, so we can both put our feet up in our respective styles.”</p><p> </p><p>Ken beams at me. “You thought of everything,” he says, giving my thigh a nice squeeze. “I have one more gift for you. It’s hiding inside the old globe over there.”</p><p> </p><p>“What, Pedro wasn’t enough, you think?” I ask as I wriggle out of his lap and go to the bar cart.</p><p> </p><p>“He was... more than enough, honestly, but... I felt we were missing something.”</p><p> </p><p>I lift open the globe and find a gold paper-wrapped present the size of a watch box and have no clue what to expect. I give him a look as I shake it. “More jewels?”</p><p> </p><p>Ken winks as he leans forward in his new chair. “Open it.”</p><p> </p><p>I rip the paper and lift the top off what must be a reused jewelry box... and my jaw drops for the second time this night. “Ummmm... it is gold, and it is a ring... but Sir, I don’t believe this was meant to fit me.”</p><p> </p><p>Ken actually blushes a bit, and I notice he’s absently rubbing his thumb against his forefinger like he does when he’s nervous. “I em... figured we could both benefit from <em>that</em> particular adornment.”</p><p> </p><p>With narrowed eyes, I slowly step back over to him, taking his not-so-subtle gift to heart. I’m always pleasantly surprised when he entertains his erotic notions. This time, when I join him on the chair, I spread my knees and straddle him, pushing him back against the cushion as I take his head between my hands and lean into him. “Shall we take this upstairs? I’m pretty sure this beautiful chair wasn’t built for what we have in mind right now.”</p><p> </p><p>Just before giving me the crowning kiss of the day, Ken whispers, “I knew I was your real favorite director.”</p><p> </p>
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